


Voices, Vitriol and Stuart Pot.

by MakeAStriderSmile



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: 2D really does need a lot of meds, Also kissing there is kissing there, Drabble, I need to publish fics more regularly gd, M/M, Mentions of every phase from one to four, Murdoc's weird self loathing, So basically some pill talk if that makes you uncomfy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 09:59:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12932871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MakeAStriderSmile/pseuds/MakeAStriderSmile
Summary: A little bit of a biased introspection on the progression of the band through snippets of 2-D's singing and the effect it leaves on Murdoc.I literally found this from September while I was writing a little Christmas fic and decided to post. Think this is my first published thing for the fandom, hope you enjoy.





	Voices, Vitriol and Stuart Pot.

He sings into empty, stale and freezing air. The bedsit feels almost too crowded, with you and him and the lilting warmth of his voice. You realise you need a larger space, one that can contain that contrary voice and keep its warmth far from your dark, splintered heart, lest it try pull itself back together. He's lucid, barely, on the bare minimum of pills that you grudgingly shoved into his system. His eyes might have been glazed but you honestly couldn't even tell anymore. At least before, you had one eye to go off, even if it was always sightless glassy. He sings and you think that this could work if he would stop being so damn pretty so you could just think for a moment and remember… Remember… Remember the drummer you knew you  _ needed,  _ almost as much as you needed the lanky fucker you were gawking at from across the room. 

 

He mutters into the barely air conditioned recording studio. That summer, the air con had sputtered to a bare minimum, and you all suffered for it. The big guy rarely left his room. Poor little Noodle spent half her days trying to stuff herself in the fridge. Half the time, you were the one dragging her out. Other days, it was Russ that found her serene and sleeping amongst the milk cartons and takeaway containers. You spent your free time recording, always recording, and he was always kind- or dumb - enough to oblige you every time. He once even put a little ditty together based off of a night you spent drunk, high and whispering urgent and slurred into the mic. You were sure that one would be a hit no matter what. His voice came through the speakers, no longer that mutter but a thick accented voice that grated on the nerves and sent a shiver down your spine that you had no right to feel. ‘Oi, Muds, we done ‘ere for the day? S’time for my pills, is all.’ A spindly finger taps a pale temple. He's getting another migraine. You drawl out that yes, you silly sod, go get your metric arseton of pills in your body, and have a cig while you're at it, your sound isn't grungy enough for this track. His face does that thing, you hate the thing, where it simultaneously crumples and brightens, as if your praise is everything, even if it's a double edged sword. You hate the thing because that praise has never once been deserved, least of all by him. 

 

He speaks into the microphone and you know his eyes are on you as he speaks the words you've written for him. The words, the song is not his, and he speaks of love almost bitterly as he stares you dead in the eyes with eyes that are cold and painfully sober as you, again, lament not acquiring his boatload of required uppers, downers, levellers and assorted other drugs. He's a mess to work with like this, snappy and angry and resentful enough that you frequently need to call Cyborg in to stop him from trying to reach into your chest and discover what's been keeping you ticking so damn long so he can crush the mangled remains with his bare, spindly, almost clawed hands, nicotine stained nails striking at your most vital points, vitriol drowned words striking deeper, harder. You take no joy in carting him back down to that underwater cell on days like that, watching the fight drain out until he's huddled on the corner of the bed begging you to close the curtains, let him out, do  _ something.  _ Only half the time, you oblige, because if you're honest, you're scared that one day, you'll lean in to close that curtain and he'll choke you with it. 

 

You don't see him sing, during the tour, obviously. Stuffed in the bloody dressing room. But every city, you see him tapping away. You assume those furtive trips he makes to the ‘toilet’ are to provide vocal samples. He doesn't sing in front of you, never directly, never again, not for the duration of the tour anyway. 

 

You hear the album long after everyone else and understand completely why he'd never mentioned it. This was his music. Untainted by your filthy claws and savage words. Eclectic and beautiful in equal measures. You're glad, for once, that he kept it from you. 

 

You hear him croon, and pant, and whisper into the mic of the much, much nicer recording studio the label had you set up in and realised the empty headed dullard was the only thing that could ever bring any measure of warmth into your long cold and still body. Even all those years ago, in the cold and stale and still of a bedsit with no heating. Even now, with so many vices to wrap yourself in, drown yourself in. Nothing made you warm like the sound of your pretty frontman singing. 

 

You hear him make a sound of indeterminate emotion into your lips. You've been at this for nearly three hours now. He seems just as unwilling to stop and get air as you. You take note of that and try to make it as short as possible before you're tangled up in each other anew. 

 

You sing, soft and scratchy into the curve of his ear as he fries up the tomatoes. He snickers, batting at your wandering fingers as he makes breakfast, Full English, only the best for the pair of you from now on. His own voice joins you after a verse, somehow creating a counterpoint that made your voice almost.. perfect. The acoustics in the grubby kitchen of the haunted house were terrible but they didn't need to be great, singing to an audience of two enraptured bandmates who sat on the couch in the adjoining room and listened to the echoes of two voices in perfect contrast, filling the cool, stale air with warmth that lingered and sank deep into one's being. 

 

He sang, and you sang, and you loved him in a way that scared you, and he loved you in a way that made you realise that perhaps he was more than you bargained for on the day you hit him with that car. It was a perfect fit, in your eyes. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you're looking to concrit about grammar mistakes and such I may have made, my comments are always open and I'll try to reply.
> 
> If you're looking to say hello, I have a tumblr, over at lupdeservesbetter. I have a Discord, too, but you'd need to message me on Tumblr for that one, since I try not to give it out too publicly. 
> 
> Have a lovely day, it's 3am here and I haven't slept in nearly a day.


End file.
